Vampires Don't Cry: Blood Samples Read online



  This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living, dead or undead, is purely coincidental.

  ISBN;  9781310597855

  All rights reserved, and the authors reserve the right to re-produce this book, or parts thereof, in any way whatsoever.

  Vampired Don’t Cry: Blood Samples

  By Ian Hall and April L. Miller

  Other vampire titles, available in paperback and eBooks everywhere…

  Vampires Don’t Cry series…

  Vampires Don’t Cry: Original Sins

  Vampires Don’t Cry: Blood Anthology

  Vampire High School (Vampires Don’t Cry: Book 1)

  The Helsing Diaries (Vampires Don’t Cry: Book 2)

  The Rage Wars (Vampires Don’t Cry: Book 3)

  Blood Red Roses (Vampires Don’t Cry: Book 4)

  Connecticut Vampire series…

  A Connecticut Vampire in King Arthur’s Court

  A Connecticut Vampire in Queen Mary’s Court

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  Blood Samples is a sampler of the vampire worlds of Ian Hall and April L. Miller.

  Contents;

  Vampires Don’t Cry: Original Sins

  (Five chapter Sample)

  Vampires Don’t Cry: The Turning of Alan Rand

  (Complete short)

  Vampires Don’t Cry: First Blood: Donny Kelp

  (Complete short)

  Vampire High School (Vampires Don’t Cry Book 1)

  (First four chapters)

  A Connecticut Vampire in King Arthur’s Court

  (First four chapters)

  We hope you enjoy the sample, and continue to follow our writings.

 

  An Excerpt from;

  Vampires Don’t Cry: Original Sin

  By Ian Hall & April L. Miller

  Distant Childhood Memories

  When I look back on my early days, I see them through a red veil of rage. It seemed the one emotion; the singular driving force that both encompassed and propelled me through that time.

  I can only dimly recall my father’s face, weather-worn, drawn and pale. I could not comprehend then his great, fierce love for me. To my childish understanding he held the warden’s keys, holding me against my will. No amount of affection could have tamed the torment within.

  Those distant years of the 1860’s come back to me in dreams. As soft as a butterfly’s wing, father brushes the hair from my moist, angry brow. “Valérie,” he says, “Be still, child.” Gingerly he pries the dead bird from my clutches, its crimson blood still coating my lips. I am scraped and bruised, the smell of my own blood increasing the never satisfied hunger. Father, holding my arms by my sides, lifts me by the waist, tears in his blood-shot eyes. I kick and scream as I’m carried from the garden, my one sanctuary through the madness of those hazy, turbulent times.

  He is always so tired; Father can scarcely bear the burden of my small frame. Like miniature daggers, my tiny nails dig into his soft skin and peel four concentric lines down the side of his neck. The wounds are deep but not fatal; but to my child’s mind, they still serve their purpose. Out of shock and terror, Father loses his grip and I go tumbling onto the plush grass as he drops to his knees beside me. I am free to run but I’m held in place by the promise of a fresh meal. Instead I lunge. The first trickle hardly coats my tongue and yet it is enough; the frenzy engulfs me.

  It takes two servants to pull me from Father’s bleeding throat. They drag me to the dark room and secure me to the wooden post. Alone with the rage, I bellow into the cavernous space. I pull against the chains and bite the shackles at my wrists. And then I smell it- the coiled skin beneath my filthy nails. I chew at them until even the flesh of my own fingers hangs in shreds.

  In this dream, I am looking down on myself from above. I know that it is me and that I am four. I’m wearing a blue silk dress with white lace at the collar and sleeves, a yellow bow and ribbon in my long, blond hair. Meant to be a lady, bred to good standing and high society, yet, beneath the fine garments beats the heart of a savage.

  The slideshow of red-tinted images brings me forward. Below me, nearly nine years old, the young girl is now sheathed in a dirty cotton nightdress, hair matted. A Roman-Catholic deacon presses an ivory rosary to her forehead, christens her with sprinkles of blessed water and prays mightily that God will exorcise the demon from within. Again, I am chained at the wrists, my knees purple from the hard stone I’m forced to kneel on. Three nuns hover behind the priest, crossing themselves for protection. I am laughing.

  I will never know if these are true memories or a collage of moments my mind has pasted together. I only hoped the truth of my youngest existence had yet to be revealed, that this nightmare of moments had been torn from my imagination. It seems that time passed again, and there came a day that believers had stopped praying and I had been sent away to be forgotten.

  My childhood in Italy should have been a time of play, a period of laughter and freedom. Instead it held nothing but restriction, my body bound in thick starched canvas, short leather and brass buckles fastened tight. Twice a day they prised my mouth open using a metal contraption, and a rubber tube passed between my straining teeth, down into my throat. Then cold liquid trickled down from a funnel held high above my head. Twice a day I struggled against its intrusion, twice each day I eventually relented, tired and weak from the fight.

  Throughout this time I never spoke. I initially found the words difficult to copy, so kept them to myself. But I listened. I memorized every word, every nuance. For years I kept the secret in my head, my source of solace through the long cold nights.

  Days after my tenth birthday, I left home for the last time. I remember father’s sad tear-filled eyes. He stood on the wide stone staircase as I got carried from the tall walls of my home. He waved to my struggling form, but I could not return the gesture, my body again encased in the stiff, unforgiving canvas device. The carriage ride swiftly took me from the streets of Venice into the countryside.

  Through the small barred window, long lines of grapevines punctuated my journey to a small, secluded building. My new room held little light, only two high windows showed the sky of the outside world. The floor, walls, and door padded in thick studded wadding. Two long glass panes sat high on the inside wall, but the dark glass never revealed the watchers that lurked beyond.

  I spent my time running between the walls, propelling myself from one side to the other. I lived that way for a very long time.

  Men watched from high above, their faces fleeting, their expressions somber and full of malice.

  I don’t remember when, but at one point my days must have taken on a different routine. Each day, two strong men held me to the floor, and a man in a white jacket stuck a long needle in my arm; a painful injection that made me sleep far more deeply than before. When I woke, and lay still groggy from my slumber, the same men force-fed me and changed my diaper. This went on so long, I almost forgot my previous regime. I have no idea how many days the dark shapes of the observers watched from above, but on one morning, it all changed.

  In time my muscles atrophied, the slack skin feeling strange as I lay, continually bound.

  Strapped in my canvas contraption, the two men carried me to a small, bright room, where they laid me carefully on the floor. A window looked out onto brightly colored green sycamore leaves. I lay on the floor, smiling at their young beauty, and did not see or hear the man ent
er the room.

  “You can go outside, Valérie,” he said, his words suddenly spinning my head in his direction. “If you’re a good girl.”

  He stood tall and thin, with closely cropped brown hair and beard. He exuded calmness from every pore of his body, and for some reason I found myself listening to his monotone. He walked past me to the window and looked outside. “The summer here is very pretty. There are gardens and flowers, hedges, and so many birds.” He turned to me, returning my stare. “You could go outside. Are you going to be a good girl?”

  For some reason I nodded. I had the notion I would pretend to be good, just long enough to get the buckles removed, then I would smash his face in.

  But then he shook his head.

  “You be a good girl first, then you get outside. You never struggle, you never try to bite us, you take your food without incident. Then you get outside.”

  I shook my head on anger and roared my protest past the mouthpiece in my canvas suit.

  “Never!”

  Argh. I had let the cat out of the bag, he knew I could talk.

  He grinned as he walked through the door into the dark corridor beyond, and the two strong men carried me back to my dark, padded room.

  Each morning, they forced the tube down my throat. Each morning, I got taken to the room with the window. Each evening I rebelled.

  Soon the leaves began to change color; subtly dimming from bright green to a paler, subdued yellow. As I lay on the tiled floor, I realized how much I wanted to see the garden.

  That night, I did not struggle as they injected me. Instead I lay still on the floor, looking into their eyes. For four days I exhibited no revolt against my captors.

  The next morning, I woke not encased in my suit. I sat up, and flexed my arms and legs. When the men entered, they carried no tube or funnel. Instead they offered me a small paper cup, which I gingerly accepted. I drank the fluid from the cup, returning it carefully to the man’s hand.

  I sat back and watched them leave. I had been a ‘good girl’, I now awaited my reward.

  Next morning, the white coated men led me by the hand along the corridors to the tiled room. The floors felt good on my bare feet, although my leg muscles protested slightly. Arriving at the room, I walked to the window, and looked out onto the garden below.

  “Good morning, Valérie.” The thin man said. “My name is Dr. Fabrini; you may call me Alvise.”

  He came to my shoulder, but never touched me, pretending to enjoy the luscious view along with me. It seemed to be his gesture of trust, knowing full well the likelihood of my turning to attack. For the first time in my short life, mind overruled instinct; the small chance that I might feel nature beneath my feet offered an incentive a father’s approving voice never could.

  “This view never fails to impress me,” he said whimsically, “I have worked at many asylums over the years, Valérie, and none offered such amenities. Most facilities I’ve seen could pass more for dungeons than a hospital; cave-like walls, dirty and crawling with infestation. You could never dream the horrors endured by the patients in those places, Valérie; they are treated less than animals and their keepers are cruel beyond reason.”

  “Being strapped to a bed, force-fed through a tube doesn’t qualify as cruelty beyond reason by your definition, Dr. Fabrini?” I clutched the window frame to contain myself, but could not disguise the venom in my voice.

  “Alvise, please,” He forced a grin. “In the facilities I speak of, Valérie, the treatment you have endured here is reserved for only the most well-behaved patients. You would not want to know what becomes of the… less cooperative… inmates.”

  Only then did I realize the doctor had successfully baited me into a dialog. I kept my eyes forward, unwilling to grant him any further victory.

  He continued without my input, “You have your father to thank for your luxury accommodations, Valérie. Mr. Lidowitz has invested much of his wealth sending you here and insuring no harm befalls you. His devotion is something quite spectacular and quite rare, my dear.”

  “You’ve spoken to my father?” I bit my lip, punishing them for allowing the hasty words to pass.

  “Oh yes. He personally commissioned my fellowship here, relocating my entire family from Sicily out of his own funds.”

  I looked up into his eyes. “Does my father ever visit me?”

  Dr. Fabrini smiled. “He watches you sometimes, and wonders.”

  I turned to the garden, and pretended to take in its details, but I felt consumed by a longing to see father once again. He still cared for me.

  At last I broke my gaze from the beautiful landscape and took in the full measure of Dr. Fabrini. He looked a young man, yet had the finest brush of gray at the temples. I’d never seen eyes so clear, blue as crystal water. Great patience lay behind them; and curiosity besides.

  “Why would my father have done such a thing?”

  “Your father loves you.” Dr. Fabrini tried to appear humble, “I have a good deal of documented success in matters of healing the mind, Valérie. Your father is a tenacious man; he did his research. And now here I am.”

  “My mind is not sick.” I sneered.

  He continued as if I’d not spoken, “Most physicians in my field tend to focus on punishment for poor behavior. I believe in reward when appropriate behavior is exhibited.”

  The doctor cupped his hand around my wrist. Immediately, I knew I could break his hand to splinters, crush the bone to powder if I so chose. But, I tucked the knowledge away for another day and allowed him his show of dominance.

  “You have earned your first reward.”

  Through a long, white labyrinth of halls, he led me to a heavy pair of thick, oak doors. For the first time since being dragged in through those doors they were opened to me and I felt a rush of brisk, clean air in my face. Were it not for Dr. Fabrini’s persistent hold upon me, I would have run out into the open fields and put the asylum at my back forever. Instead, I walked out like a mutt on a tether, knowing my frail muscles would take little catching.

  My bare feet sunk into the sharp blades and I felt a thrill run up my toes and through my body. The air felt moist with the promise of a coming downpour. Above, clouds were gathering and I remembered quite suddenly the sensation of bathing in the fresh rain.

  I remembered Father holding my arm- much the way Dr. Fabrini held me now- as I struggled to leave the dry awning of the porch and rush out into the storm. At last I managed to wriggle free, leaping from the stone steps and into the driving rain. Arms open and face up to the heavens, I spun and rejoiced gloriously. Laughing, Father ran to me, flung me into the air and twirled me about. There we danced together even as the clouds thundered above. For the first time in all my years away, I knew a longing to be held in the arms of someone who loved me and shame for my inability to love in return.

  Dr. Fabrini tugged at me as the first sprays of droplets coated my face. I wanted nothing more than to stay and dance beneath the purging clouds but I knew my only chance at feeling the grass on my feet again would be to go quietly.

  Slowly, I bent and plucked a single blade from the ground. I clutched it in my palm like a treasure and Dr. Fabrini graciously allowed me my prize.

 

  Doctor Fabrini

  Such became our custom over the following stretch of days. Each time I behaved, I was allowed a little further outside and for incrementally longer spans, but always with Dr. Fabrini at my wrist. All together I collected eighteen blades of grass.

  On the nineteenth such excursion, Dr. Fabrini walked me to a thicket of vegetation that hid an arched footbridge over a narrow creek. For the first time ever, he let go my wrist and motioned for me to cross of my own volition. I could have jumped the creek in a single bound, but still I walked the wooden bridge, pausing to glance over the side at the still and shallow bed.

  “Just there,” he said, pointing to a lattice-encased gazebo on the other side.

  I followed the direction of his finge
r and entered the obscene structure. A half-circle of benches pushed up against the round walls. Dr. Fabrini sunk onto one as if immersing in a tub of tepid water. He motioned for me to sit upon the opposite bench and I did, the crisscrossing lattice obscuring my view of the nature around.

  “Isn’t it marvelous,” he said with a deep sigh.

  “It feels like a cage,” I replied obstinately.

  Dr. Fabrini smiled sagely, “You have an innate distaste for anything man-made, Valérie.”

  “It’s a cage!” I said again.

  “It’s a place to sit and enjoy the surroundings.”

  “I can sit on the grass and not have to squint my eyes to see my surroundings through pieces of wood, or get splinters in my feet from these chopped up boards.”

  “Shoes might be helpful to you in that department,” he shrugged, glancing down at my dirty feet.

  “Shoes keep me from feeling the grass.”

  “I see we will never agree on this subject,” he told me resolutely, “but I am quite happy to sit on this bench and enjoy the scenery from here.”

  “Grown-ups are always happiest when they’re sitting.” I accused. “A bunch of lazy, useless beings that do nothing but get in the way.”

  That seemed to perk the lounging doctor’s interest, “Get in the way of what, Valérie?”

  My tongue fell suddenly mute though every nerve in my body seemed to recall the persistent hassling of maids as they brushed and dressed me, scrubbing at my face and pulling at my hair. Forever working to tame the unruly little girl that wanted only to run and climb in the open air.

  “Society is a rigid place, filled with rules of conduct,” Dr. Fabrini said as if reading my thoughts, “Those rules can be overbearing and, for some, overwhelming, Valérie. Yet, to co-exist peacefully with our fellow humans, we each must learn to follow them.”

  The doctor looked me over as if deciphering some hidden code. At that moment I hated him for his self-proclaimed insight and knew for the first time since our meeting that Alvise Fabrini stood in mortal danger of getting too close.